I shaved, showered, got dolled up, got liquored up, and hopped on the bus. I was totally cool. Thanks to lots of practice, my cool-guy stare and strut made me the master of deadpan suavity, and I was brimming with self-confidence as I got off the bus and strutted toward the promised land.

All around, hipsters streamed into the club, flashing a grin and a wink. I was cool, I was on the list, I was all set. But then I encountered a trim black man in a velour suit, dark-framed glasses, and a cocked-just-so hat, who was standing on the correct side of the velvet rope, alternating disapproving glares between me and the blank space that would have been my name on his list. I was stripped of my cool, and a hipster doorman was to blame.

I understand that half the mystique of dance clubs comes from velvet-rope intimidation, that if you ain’t on the list, you ain’t cool enough to pay nine bucks for a drink. But I’m a journalist and a wiseass, so I should be doubly hard to intimidate. Yet I had been expertly put in my place by a slight frown and an eyeful of velour. And I knew that if this man’s hair and posture and wardrobe had been a tad less pristine, I wouldn’t have been nearly as daunted. I’m sure of it, in fact, because this has happened before.

My name’s Dan, and I have a fear of hipsters.

I fear all hipsters, of every variety — the Armani-clad dance-club slicksters, who make me feel chubby and without rhythm; the indie-rock slacksters, who make me feel homogenized and without original thought; the literati booksters, who make me feel dumb and poorly read; this whole train of thought, come to think of it, which makes me feel shallow and insecure. If they’re hip, hop, and/or happenin’, I’m genuinely afraid of them. This is not just self-pity or jealousy. It’s fear they’ll look better than me, fear they’ll expose my deadpan-suave demeanor as a façade, fear they’ll recognize the façade themselves, fear I’ll be dorkified in their presence.

My aversion to hipsters almost makes me understand what women must go through reading Cosmo. Why can’t my hair be that perfect? How did he know to match those shoes with those pants? Why can’t I grin and wink my way into a club?

I’M WAY past high school, and I’m glad to have those insecurities behind me. But I have found that, unfortunately, those four years do prepare you for real life. In the working world, cliques still form, brownnosing still gets you a better evaluation, and sick days are still a godsend. Socially and romantically, life is still a popularity contest, except that the football players and cheerleaders have been replaced by restaurant owners, models, and people with no other job than to make me feel bad.

I can trace my hipsterphobia back to getting picked last for gym class. Wanting to be one of the cool kids isn’t just for kids, although it becomes — or should become — a much lower priority. And by the time I left high school, I should have moved beyond coveting a life I don’t truly want. Sure, I could save up for a designer wardrobe or the entire Matador Records catalogue. I could dress, walk, act like a hipster ... hell, I could be a hipster, if my hair would cooperate. But I’m generally happy as I am — baseball hats, Zeppelin albums, Toyota Corolla, and all. I like me as I am.

Yet every time I see a guy in tinted aviator sunglasses and a ’70s concert tee, I feel about as hip as Alex P. Keaton. Shouldn’t I just live and let live? It’s not like I want his mod haircut. I do not want him to clutch my shoulders and cry, “I accept you!” Yet the possibility that he might laugh at me inspires fear. My feelings are actually more pathetic than they were in high school, because the jocks really did look down on the lower social echelons, whereas hipsters don’t care. Besides, at 25 I should know better.

HIPSTERPHOBIA ISN’T a problem for other people I know. My hipster friends are too cool to notice. My unhip friends are too uncool to notice. Most of my friends don’t venture into downtown clubs and don’t want to. They know they don’t belong there on Friday nights and aren’t interested in trying. Me, I’m drawn to that world because I’m a social climber, a present-day F. Scott Fitzgerald socially predetermined to pine for a life unknown to me. Right?

Sure ...

I’m just being restless, superficial, and childish, coveting what someone else has, wanting to be captain of the football team without having to make a tackle. If I truly wanted to be cool, I wouldn’t be a hipster — I’d just stop caring that I’m not. It’s a bit Zen for my tastes, but that’s the way it goes. Unfortunately, my fate in life is not accepting my fate in life. I’m destined to try to get into hip clubs, eventually work my way in, then find myself too intimidated to have a good time. That’s fun.

I did get into a club the following week, and I walked around almost shell-shocked. I’d been stripped of my bravado, and I felt like a little kid at a grown-up party. The women were beautiful, but I felt so outpaced by the real hipsters that I couldn’t even pretend to mack. The DJ was good, so I eventually hit the dance floor, which tends to be hipster-free. Lost in this sea of humanity, I was safe.

Eventually, I went to the bathroom. Lots of preening and boasting, lots of camaraderie. I probably could have joined in, had a laugh with the hipsters. But what if I found out that they’re not that scary at all, just normal guys with more stylized tastes than mine? What if I found out that my fear of hipsters is completely unjustified?

Nah, better off this way. I’m used to it by now.

Dan Tobin escaped the superficial hipster lifestyle by moving to Los Angeles. He can be reached at DanTobinDanTobin@hotmail.com.